Night Bus to Gwangju

I observe through glass that also doubles me,

each glare that gleams a halo through the window steam.

It used to mean something: A hanging lantern,

like a bell calling out in the night. A single bulb

that wavers, and in the distance more blips

plotting the constellations of civilization,

then a strobe that floods a frosty field;

Two neon crosses, one illuminated red,

a higher one shining white;

And hanging above a gap, accounting

for a mountain, facing downward

in prostration like the moon, to bathe

a frozen cabbage bed in an amber hue of light.

What has been fashioned on this peninsula

of grief? Everyone I travel with

bows to tiny screens.

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